


Make My Heart Beat Double-Time

by mardia



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-24
Updated: 2010-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:56:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the One-Night-Stand ficathon. "Dan honestly has no plans for the evening besides showing up at Nate's place and trying to make the guy feel better."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make My Heart Beat Double-Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [summerstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/gifts).



Dan honestly has no plans for the evening besides showing up at Nate's place and trying to make the guy feel better. The entire situation just sucked beyond the telling of it—bad enough that Vanessa had kissed Chuck Bass while still technically dating Nate, but add the fact that the photos were plastered all over Gossip Girl, and that this was clearly the result of Chuck's continuing downward spiral regarding his father's death, and that Nate and Vanessa had been having problems _before_ the pictures even came out, and you pretty much had a gigantic mess on your hands.

And even though Vanessa was Dan's best friend, would always be Dan's best friend, he couldn't help but feel horrible for Nate, who was, after all, his friend too, and who was a pretty decent guy, and who definitely didn't deserve to have his business plastered all over some blog yet _again._

So here he is—knocking on Nate's front door, DVD cases in hand, trying to think of an opening line that doesn't consist of, _Hey, I'm sorry my best friend and your best friend screwed you over._

When Nate opens the door, he looks tired, worn thin, but he smiles at Dan and silently stands aside to let him in.

*

Nate's watching the movie, and Dan's mostly watching Nate, trying to figure out a way to start the conversation they probably do need to have, even if they don't actually want to.

It's not until halfway through the movie that Nate says, abruptly, "The funny thing is that I feel a little bit guilty, for being so mad at them."

"Why? Nate—you have every right to be pissed off." And he does, Dan can't even imagine how he would have reacted if that had been Serena with Chuck, back when he and Serena were still together.

"Yeah," Nate agrees quietly. "That doesn't actually help as much as you think it would." He sighs and pauses the movie, tossing the remote down on the couch. He stands up and asks, "I'm going to get a drink—you want something?"

"I'll have what you're having," Dan says after a moment. He doesn't really feel like drinking tonight, but it would feel weird to let Nate drink by himself. Nate's mom isn't home, so it's not like they'll get in trouble—although for all Dan knows, they wouldn't be in trouble even if she was home.

When Nate comes back, he hands Dan a glass of probably very expensive Scotch. Dan nods and takes a sip, and Nate collapses onto the couch next to him, carrying his own glass that he somehow manages not to spill.

*

They're about half an hour into the second movie, and Dan's already drunk. He feels boneless, like he could just sink into the couch and never move again.

"I'm really glad you're here," Nate says softly, patting Dan's thigh. Dan looks down at Nate's hand with interest, because he definitely doesn't remember it being there earlier. But it's there now, and it doesn't appear to be going anywhere. Huh.

That's okay though. "Hey, we're friends, right?" Dan offers. "Just because Vanessa's my friend doesn't mean you aren't."

"Yeah," Nate whispers, staring at the screen. Without thinking, Dan rubs his shoulder, wondering what he should say. Nate leans into his touch, and before Dan can quite figure out what's happening, Nate's leaning against his side, a warm weight against him, his hand curling around Dan's thigh.

This is strange. Or—this should feel stranger than it does, at least. Dan wonders what they would look like to an outsider, him with his arm around Nate's shoulders—it was more comfortable than having his arm squished between Nate and the back of the couch—and Nate with his hand, well, where his hand is.

And oh, hey, Nate's looking at him now, mouth wet from the Scotch, looking at Dan and saying, "You're a really nice guy, Dan."

Dan's about to say thank you, because that's what you do when someone gives you a compliment, but then Nate's leaning in and Dan has only a split-second to react before—

Before Nate's mouth is on his, initially clumsy but turning into something more confident, smoother as he lifts a hand to Dan's face, as he licks his way into Dan's mouth. And Dan should—he should be pulling away, he should be saying what the _fuck_, but—but it feels—it feels—

It feels _fantastic_, and Dan's head isn't spinning badly enough that he can't recognize that, that he can't moan into Nate's mouth and kiss him back. And now, oh God, now Nate's hand is moving up from Dan's thigh to—to—

Dan finally pulls away from the kiss, but it's only to gasp and shiver as Nate's hand finds the zipper to Dan's jeans, as he pulls it down and works his hand inside. And God, God, he's drunk and on Nate Archibald's couch with Nate Archibald's hand inside of his pants, with Nate Archibald's hand wrapped around his cock, and how the hell did he get here?

"Nate," Dan begs, his voice cracking, and the hell of it is that he doesn't even know what he's asking for, not really.

"Shh," Nate responds, and Dan almost feels gratified by the fact that Nate's voice is hoarse, like he's not the only one who's going a little crazy here. "It's all right, I've got you."

And because Dan is apparently really slow on the uptake tonight, he doesn't fully get what Nate is promising until Nate pulls him out of his boxers and then lowers his head.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," Dan groans, his hips moving up reflexively. Nate just hums around his cock—and God, oh God, it's taking everything Dan has not to just start thrusting into his mouth—Jesus _Christ_, what does he do with his hands, would it be all right to touch him, what exactly is the right etiquette when you're getting blown by your best friend's semi-boyfriend on his couch?

When his hands finally land, gently, on Nate's head, stroking the fine strands of hair, Nate hums again—in approval—and just sucks harder. Dan bites his lip and tries not to be too loud, but that's—well, that's pretty much impossible, because as it turns out, Nate is very good at this, and also seems pretty determined to have Dan making as much noise as humanly possible. At one point, he actually pulls off and says, his eyes bright and his mouth wet—holy God—and says, "Don't hold it in, I want to hear—" And then he's moving down again, thank God, and now Dan's not even trying to hold anything back, not that he ever could in the first place.

It's over far too soon, and ends with Dan gasping for breath and wondering just what the fuck is going on, and with Nate wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and God, that shouldn't be as hot as it is.

He should say something. Although what he should say is a matter of debate—should he say thank you? That this can never ever happen again? That Vanessa—oh, God, _Vanessa_—is his best friend, and he's so sorry, and he has no idea what either of them were thinking?

Nate's watching him warily now, his eyes dark and maybe a little sad. "Dan."

Dan swallows twice before he responds, and notes with fascination the way Nate's gaze fixes on his mouth, just for a moment. "Yeah."

"Are you—I mean, is this—"

Dan hasn't had a clue as to what he should be doing for the entire night. And the alcohol's still moving in his veins, still clouding his judgment. Or at least, that's what he tells himself when he says, "We should probably move this to your bedroom."

Nate's eyes flash with half a dozen emotions that Dan can't read, but he says, a corner of his mouth—that mouth that Dan can't stop staring at now—quirking up as he does, "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

And they do.

*

The next morning, Dan is sober, more than a little mortified, and looking for his pants. And his shirt. He quietly moves around the room, searching for his clothes and pretending like he doesn't feel Nate's eyes watching him, pretending like he doesn't feel guilty as hell because holy crap, _Vanessa_—

"Dan," Nate says, almost pleading, like he's the one with the answers, like he's got any answers at all to give.

Except maybe he does. Dan finally picks his jeans up from the corner of the room in which they were flung and says, not turning around, "You need to talk to Vanessa."

There's a sharp indrawn breath, and he can almost see Nate flinching. "Dan—"

"You need to call her, and you need to talk to her," Dan says firmly, still not turning around as he pulls up his jeans and zips himself up. He still can't look at Nate. "And then—" He doesn't have an answer for that, for what happens after Nate calls Vanessa and tells her whatever he's going to tell her.

"Dan, I'm sorry."

As he pulls his shirt over his head—it was under his pants in the corner—Dan finally turns to look at Nate, still tangled up in the sheets, his hair a wreck and his chest bare. "Yeah," Dan says faintly, wondering how, even now that he's sober, and clear-headed, and able to realize just what a horrible decision this was—how it is that a part of him can only think of Nate's mouth, and the way Nate's hips had fit into his hands.

But that's not the point. The point is that there's Vanessa, and that last night was the product of too much Scotch and too little thinking.

"Yeah, I know," Dan says. "I'm sorry too."

He leaves the room, and doesn't look back, and tries not to think of what happened, or what's coming next. He fails at both.


End file.
